


These Here Are My Desires

by sarahgene12



Category: Mumford & Sons (Band)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Original Character(s), RPF, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: A girl goes to a concert, gets drunk, and comes upon a familiar face sitting in the dark. He's drunk too.





	

She was drunk. More than she should have been, under the circumstances. Getting yourself wasted in a crowd of a thousand people, on a hot July night when you're your own ride home, was not the smartest of ideas. But there it was.

It was late too; she had no inkling of the time, but judging by the complete blackness of the sky it might've been around midnight. Most everyone had left the grassy arena. The stage was bare, save for a few stinking Solo cups reeking of beer and whiskey. The band had been gone for at least an hour.

Yet the sound still resonated. The pounding, rumbling drums, the chortling, high banjo played until its strings snapped. And, above all else, the voice. His voice. Roaring, screaming, demanding the ear's attention, challenging the soul to rise, making her want to get angry, to break something. Freeing something inside of her that she couldn't explain, making her believe that she could just die and get to a place so much better than heaven, if she only let herself go there. He had flattened her.

Marcus.

What was it about him that did so much to her? He was British, sure, a rugged, devil-may-care kind of British that slurred its words and clipped its H's. He dressed onstage like a highwayman of the old West, crumpled white shirt, suspenders, boots and all. There was that funny little mustache that couldn't seem decided whether it wanted to be there or not, above his lip. And he was a bit on the heavy side, a little chubby; but then, she'd always kind of liked that in a man.

Whatever it was, he had captivated her. She had lost herself so completely in the music and the screaming of his ferocious magnetism; she hadn't known where she was. She'd drunk herself silly in the wild, spinning miasma of the crowd, hardly realizing any of it was happening.

Now, it was quiet. Silent, save for the ticking cries of the crickets' song. She gathered herself up, swaying on her feet, her stomach rolling, and stumbled away from the pavilion and its ghosts.

She had just reached the edge of the gravel parking lot when something caught her eye, way off in her peripheral vision. A dull orange glow, like that of a firefly. She turned towards it, uneasy on her feet, blinking to clear her eyes, and saw that it was not a firefly at all. It was a cigarette, glowing amber and sighing smoke. Seemingly disembodied, to her it was floating there all on its own.

She inched closer, concentrating mostly on the movement of her feet, unbalanced by the swirling and swishing in her head. She was very warm, all over her body, and her skin felt fuzzy, somehow. This was the wine, working on her, lulling her slowly to sleep.

Closer still, and she could see a face, illuminated in the tawny burn of the cigarette end. The image appeared and disappeared with every puff of smoke, there and then suddenly not in the complete darkness of the night.

Despite the state she was in, she knew, though could not completely believe, who she was seeing.

Marcus Mumford was sitting there on the ground, slouched against the front wheel of an old, sad, rust-eaten pick-up truck, the stub of that cigarette smoldering between his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes were slitted against the smoke floating up in front of his round, stubbly face. The burning tobacco cast an odd, slight fire in his eyes, giving them an eerie glow. From this distance, she could hear his breathing, heavy and laborious, as if he'd just been running. Her mind reeling, her stomach heaving, she sat down hard on the ground. Her legs simply gave out under her.

Dizzy as hell, and more than a little embarrassed for herself, she stared hard at her feet, daring not to look up for fear that the incredible apparition in front of her was simply a dream, a hallucination. It couldn't really be him.

Besides the ringing in her head, if she listened hard enough, there was still the barely-perceptible sound of labored breathing, low and guttural. And ever so faintly, every once in a while, she could hear him pull on the cigarette, and exhale the smoke with a murmur of satisfaction.

"You alright there, then?" His voice sent a wave of shock through her, and she choked on the knot of nerves gathered in her throat. Was she actually shaking?

"Uh--- y-yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

He grunted, shifting his weight and pulling off another drag on the cigarette. "I'm a bit sloshed, I'm afraid." His words slurred, smeared between his fleshy lips by the tricks of alcohol.

She managed a weak smile, and admitted that she was too.

He grinned at her, his funny little mustache twisting into a scribbled line. Her face grew hot, and she felt beads of sweat pop up on her forehead. He was real. This was really happening.

"Damn, I was hoping to catch a ride. D'you know if I can catch a cab or something?"

She shook her head, struck suddenly mute. Marcus sighed, settled back against the truck and blew a procession of smoke rings. She found herself watching his lips as they puckered into an "O" shape, and then also when he took a swig from a nearly-empty bottle of beer that she hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

She watched, mesmerized, as his tongue slipped out and licked away the dribble of alcohol on the corner of his mouth. Something within her had caught fire. Maybe it was the wine; more likely, it was the fact that she was mere feet from a very drunk, very British , bearish singer with the voice of a lion and the eyes of an old sailor. This was Marcus Mumford, the man who just an hour or so before had completely captivated her onstage, had pulled the heart from her chest and given it wings and sent her into a frenzied, drumbeat-induced state of ecstasy.

Mind buzzing, heart doing laps around her esophagus, she managed to speak, her voice quiet and cracked. "Could I have some of that?" Pointed at the beer. He stared at her for a long while, his eyes nothing more than shadows in the dying cigarette's light.

She didn't have to see his eyes to know what color they were. She knew, knew they were the color of ash, the color you got when you cracked open a walnut. Kind of sad-looking, but also filled with an extraordinary life. They were eyes she knew by heart, and it killed her to have them looking at her now, in person.

"Please?"

With a sigh, he handed her the bottle. With a grateful, woozy smile, she took it and swallowed a mouthful.

It tasted how the suspicious yellow stains on the dirty floors of public restrooms usually smelled. She hated beer. Yet she had taken it, and drunk it, and the lip of the bottle had tasted like Marcus, and was still hot from where his lips had touched it. She relished it.

Oh boy she was drunk.

She pushed herself up into a kneeling position, then tried to stand. First her legs, then her head disobeyed her, the former transfiguring themselves into jelly and the latter pickling her brain in enough alcohol to send all coherent thought out the window. She fell back against the pickup truck, barely supporting herself with one hand and nearly kneeing Marcus in the face.

In an effort to spare himself a broken nose, Marcus sunk back into the grass, groaning as the night-cool ground tickled the back of his neck. "Fuckin' watch it, will ya? I don't need my face all mashed up!"

Ordinarily his words would have stung her, but wine and the summer stars had numbed her and made her giddy, and she giggled at the way he looked on the ground, kind of like a turtle flipped over on its shell. "I'm sorry! I fell over!"

He rolled his eyes, stretching himself out beside the truck's deflated left rear tire and tucking his hands behind his head. "No shit. Just sit down 'fore you hurt yourself."

She sat, not gracefully but at least without incident.

He looked different now, stretched out on the ground, eyes lit by the stars overhead. For there were plenty of stars; the pavilion was way out in the middle of nowhere, out in some field in Kansas, guarded on three sides by barren cornfield. Under his vest, his button-up shirt, some wrinkled and sweat-drenched old grey thing with thin red vertical stripes like terminal heartbeats, had come untucked from his jeans, and she could see an inch or two of his plump middle, and the elastic band of his boxers.

She crawled on her hands and knees to him, barely able to follow a straight path. He didn't stir when she sat back on her heels; nor did he seem to care when she stared down at him, her breath damp with liquor and longing, her hair hanging down in her face.

"Marcus?"

He looked at her, eyes heavy, and seemed to discover a secret in her face. His eyes became dark, the color of a Midwestern sky moments before a storm.

"What? What do you want?"

Oh God, just his voice was enough to send a trickle of pleasure down her back. It was the voice she'd imagined plenty of times in the dark, whispering to her from the pillow beside. It was the voice she'd wanted so much to hear spoken in person, to have seduce her with low, side-streets-of-Edinburgh growls. And he was here. He was right here. And she was so very drunk.

Unable to breathe, her heart tattooing the back of her ribs in a frantic rage, she forced herself to raise her head and look Marcus straight in the eye. They were close enough for her to feel his breath on her face, and to see each individual bead of sweat; sweat hung like salted diamonds along the lines in his forehead, in his eyelashes of ebony, and in the sandpaper stubble under his chin, along his jaw.

He lifted his hand, the palm smeared with dirt, and buried his fingers in her long blonde hair like wheat. His hand, soiled and knobby with calluses, cupped the back of her head more tenderly than she imagined they could hold anything. His fingers squeezed the back of her neck; her mouth dropped open in pure stupefaction.

Marcus smiled coyly, slipping two fingers beneath the collar of her shirt and gently rubbing her feverish skin. Then, looking out from under his prominant brow, still slowly rubbing her back in slow circles, he whispered, "What's your name?"

She rolled her head back, pinning his hand there, and closed her eyes. "Sarah," she breathed, her chest tight. He was touching her, actually touching her, and she couldn't believe what it was doing to her.

Marcus echoed the words from her lips from his own: "Sarah." How glorious it sounded when he said it, more like a song, more like poetry; an invitation.

His fingers circled, circled. Round and round and round in a circular, sensual rhythm, he himself swaying from side to side, a funny little grin on his mouth.

Marcus was really drunk. Sarah tipped her head forward , her hair falling over her face. She felt his hand slip forward over her collar bone, tracing the bowshead shape of it. She leaned back into his touch; she heard his breath quicken and his hand slipped down over the apple's curve of her small breast. A sigh slipped through her lips and her body was electrified.

She turned to him, the gravel and dirt crunching underneath her, and before she could think about it she leaned all the way in and kissed him, her tongue tracing the shape of his lips. She felt the breath catch in his throat, and when he exhaled, she tasted the beer. For the slightest of moments, Marcus' body tensed; then he was kissing her back, his mouth covering hers, his tongue dancing around her own.

The hand over her breast pawed at her clumsily, and a fire was lit within her; his other hand reached over and gripped the earth. A low moan rumbled up from Marcus' throat, and she felt his weight shift until he was completely on top of her, one knee on either side of her hips, that belt buckle engraved with a capital M pressing hard into her belly. Her hands slipped from his shoulders to the breadth of his waist, fingers wrapped around his belt. She clutched at his belt, unsure even now whether she wanted to go further.

But he was already working her t-shirt up over her head, clumsily kissing her face and her neck, and her belly as they were bared to him. When his wet lips brushed her skin just below her belly button, she let herself cry out, and her hands tightened their grip around his waist. He raised his head again and kissed her brutally, his tongue tangling with hers and his hot breath warming her cheek.

"Marcus, Marcus...." She breathed, gasping into his ear. Her fingers scrambled, struggled to find a grip on that stupid belt buckle; it scraped her knuckles, bruised them a little with the desperate rolling of Marcus' hips. He was already pressing into her and she could feel him, hard for her, pulsing nearly in her hand.

One of his hands moved suddenly and covered hers, guiding her fingers, no longer gentle but forceful, and finally, the leather tongue came unclasped from the brass buckle and he was pushing her hand lower, pressing it underneath his to the front of his jeans. Again he rutted against her, and this time Marcus moaned loadly; she looked at him, and his eyes were squeezed shut, his lips parted. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. She felt him under her hand, so hard, so ready, for her, and she almost couldn't believe that any of this was real.

He rolled his hips into her again, kissing and licking her neck until she swore she felt her heart stop and beat too fast, both at the same time, and with him grinding at her, his moans almost constant and so low, sounding so much like an animal's growl, a tiger in heat; she yanked the zipper of his jeans downward and slipped a hand inside.

"Christ. Oh fuck!" Marcus' whole body tensed up the second she took him into her hand, and scrambling madly, he pawed at her, panting and somehow crazed. He moved one hand above her head again, fingers digging deep into the dirt, and with the other he pulled Sarah's jeans off of her hips, not bothering with the belt, the buttons, or the zipper. It was a struggle for a few moments, and Sarah took the opportunity to squeeze him gently, once, then again, relishing the gasps which escaped him, until finally the seams of her jeans yielded and she was now naked under him.

As much as it might've seemed that way, she was not in control of this. Marcus had both hands bracing himself against the earth, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes closed and his hot breath warming her cheek. A long, loud moan rolled off his tongue, tasting like beer and cigarettes. Her hands shaking but her mind made up, Sarah released her hold on him for just a moment, just long enough to push his jeans and boxers down to his knees.

Then she took ahold of him again, working her hand up and down the length of his penis with increasing pressure, squeezing harder when she got to the head. The second time she did this, Marcus nearly screamed, his voice choking off when she first guided him inside.

She gasped as he slid into her, rolling her head back and bracing her body. A breathless "Oh!" escaped her, muscles clenching and stretching tight, hips aching already from the force behind Marcus' thrusts. The man she'd only before fantasized about like this was now very real, gasping open-mouthed in her ear.

Sarah held tight onto Marcus' shoulders, knuckles white, and as his hips rolled faster, his thick thighs squeezing around her own, his moans of pleasure drowned in whispers of "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!", she just kept kissing him. Over and over again she kissed him, his lips sour from the cigarette and bitter from the beer. They were both slick with sweat, him more than her; she felt one of his hands slide from the back of her neck down to the small of her back, the fingertips rough, the palm gentle.

The night, the world around her was fuzzy, distant; outside of her body she could feel nothing, was unaware of anything but Marcus, and the way he wasn't even speaking now. He breathed hot onto her neck, scratching her shoulder and breast with the dark stubble peppered across his face.

An airless gasp passed over his lips, another groan choked into silence as he scrambled and gripped her waist with both hands.

Her shoulderblades and back were rubbed raw by the dry grass underneath her, her heart was beating desperately against her ribs; Sarah felt the moment coming, both in her body and in Marcus'.

She dug her heels into the backs of Marcus' thighs, and felt his whole body quiver, heard him growl lowly in her ear. The center of her grew warm; Marcus fell back from her and her belly became sticky with his cum.

The night felt cool now in comparison to the heat of their bodies. Marcus rolled off of her and lay still, one strong hand still loosely holding her waist. Neither one moved. Neither spoke. She wanted to cover herself again but didn't dare, afraid to lose or will away what had just happened.

There was only blackness, and the stars, and the distant cry of cicadas-- further, the thrumming of cars on the highway.

"Sarah." Marcus whispered her name, slurred by alcohol and murmured with effort through still-laborous breaths. She turned her head and could just see him there, chest heaving, eyes glittering with an unseen light, hair wild as if taken by a high wind. He looked at her. "Sarah," he said again, just that.

He propped himself up on one arm, the tiniest ghost of a smile appearing around his mouth. The bottom one was already swollen a bit. The hand that had been cupping her waist moved to her cheek. He leaned in, hesitating for only a moment, and kissed her softly, much more tenderly than the first. Her eyes were open, his were not.


End file.
